Release
by Harmony Bites
Summary: Draco released Hermione from her captivity. Now it’s time for her to return the favour. DMHG


Disclaimer: © 2006 harmony bites. All rights reserved. This work may not be archived, reproduced, or distributed in any format without prior written permission from the author. This is an amateur non-profit work, and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by J.K.Rowling or any other lawful holder.

**A/N:** This was written for **Argosy's** birthday. **Argosy** is the author of the several wonderful stories, particularly more than one DM/HG - she's on several archives (but not FFN), and you can look her up on Live Journal under that name to track down some great stories. Thanks to **Bambu** and **Djinn** for their betas!

**RELEASE**

o0o

Draco took the diary from the drawer. Sliding a piece of parchment from the loose sheets he kept between its pages, he folded and refolded it in his hands. He laid the piece down on the desk, smoothing the creases with his fingers. Next, he lit a candle with an unspoken _Incendio_. Even without a wand, he had enough power for that.

They'd taken away his wand, of course. Those in the Order were hardly the trusting sort after Snape's—

Unsure why he was hesitating, except that he hated how he felt bound, Draco finally dipped his quill in the charmed ink. The scratch of the quill on the parchment sounded like a screech that should wake all of Grimmauld Place.

Not quite wake the dead. No, not that.

He pushed his mind away from that thought before it took the same old rutted track. Whenever he dwelt on Snape, he felt compelled to write in that bloody diary. Moody had put the book through every test known to wizardkind but—

His head snapped up at the scrape of a key in the lock. His heart beating rapidly, he managed to shove the parchment and diary back in the drawer before he heard the rattle of the doorknob. By the time the creak of the door announced the intrusion into his room, he had been able to force calm into his expression, slumping in his chair with his legs crossed and his hands resting on his knee.

Granger must have just taken a shower because her hair was still wet. The pile of curls, which usually surrounded her face like a halo, hung fairly sedately for once. He found himself missing the tousled, untamed mass.

"Granger, you're beginning to get on my nerves." And he didn't care to dwell either on exactly what nerves she was beginning to get on. Except the way her dressing gown gaped was showing just enough skin to suggest more would be even more… interesting. She must have guessed the turn his thoughts were taking, because she pulled her gown closer together, which meant the bared expanse of skin disappeared, but which also meant the fabric was stretched tighter in some alluring ways.

"I wanted to check on you. I saw the light spilling from under the door and—"

"Wanted to make sure I wasn't kicking off my great escape?"

"This isn't prison."

"It's not Azkaban, but that is a locked door."

"Even so, this is a rather nicer prison than the dank hole I was housed in."

"Granger, I got you out of that dank hole."

"Which is why you're not in Azkaban."

"Still don't trust me," he drawled, leaning forward and taking her hand a moment before she twisted it away.

"I don't understand why you did help me."

"Really, after all your eloquent pleas for me to do just that?" He gave her his best smirk, but it faltered at her stare.

"Escaping was too easy."

That was the part of Granger which was too frightening, but which he found hard to stay away from. Time spent with her threatened exposing what he was doing, and sides of himself that he couldn't bear to face. She missed nothing and was far too good at putting little pieces dangled in front of her together then filling in the rest. Draco could almost see her sharp mind clicking away behind those deceivingly soft brown eyes. And it was so hard—not giving away those pieces.

How had Snape fooled so many for years? "They trusted me."

"Death Eaters don't strike me as the trusting sort."

"They didn't think I had anywhere else to go—you convinced me otherwise." She almost had at that. But that had been before he'd had to cast the one Unforgivable there was no coming back from.

He hadn't been able to stay away from Granger in her cell. He still wasn't sure why. After all, he hadn't come to watch any of the Weasels they had captured—not even the chance to poke at the twins of the litter through their cage had tempted him. His visits to Granger had been noted and reported upon by Nott. That had gained him an unpleasant interrogation by Legilimency and the bright idea that had led to his incarceration here. Not that he'd been free before—he hadn't been free since he'd taken the Dark Mark.

The way Granger was staring at him now was identical to the calculating look she'd given him in the "dank hole" they'd put her in. Even then he'd wondered how she could be in such deep shit and yet stare back at him that way, worrying her lip, not as if she was afraid of him, but as if he was some Arithmancy problem, and she would keep plugging in different variables until she found the one that would balance the equation.

"Besides," he said, recovering his smirk, "Moody questioned me under Veritaserum."

"Which does not work on an Occlumens, and Harry overheard Snape mention that your aunt trained you in the discipline."

Draco couldn't repress a shudder at her speaking Snape's name aloud, and he tried to cover it with a shrug. "Have it your way, then. Lock me up here 'til the end of the war. At the rate you lot are moving, I might _not_ be grey by then." He leaned close to her. He noticed she didn't have her wand in hand. Foolish of her to so underestimate him—he felt insulted, yet oddly triumphant. "You told me you believed people could change, that I could change. I listened. But apparently you didn't believe your own words."

She expelled a breath. "You did lower that wand. You didn't cast the _Avada Kedavra_ at Dumbledore; even Harry had to believe that your rot didn't go all the way through. So yes, I thought you could be reached, that maybe, just maybe, you'd get word to the Order. I could even have seen you looking the other way if I found a way to escape. But you're the one that handed me a Portkey then grabbed hold and came with me. That seems… a great deal of distance to travel—from the boy who would have thrown a party to celebrate my death-by-Basilisk to my oh so gallant rescuer."

"As you say, I was a boy." He yawned and stretched exaggeratedly. "I'm all in. Time for bed. Care to tuck me in?"

"Thank you, no." Her gown swirled as she left, and he caught her scent rising in a wave and closed his eyes. A rose scent, but not quite. It was mixed with other odours he identified with a Potions storeroom—or classroom. Draco could almost swear he heard a low voice telling the class to bring up their samples to the desk.

He blinked hard and rubbed his knuckles over his eyes. Snape had been able to use the same alien logic Granger did, all straight lines, taking the quickest way to any point. Snape had called it "the method" and had tried to teach it to him. Applying that line of argument once to his Father had earned him a day Transfigured into a worm. _"If you're going to think in a muddy fashion, you might as well wallow in it."_

Well, it was his father who was with the worms now, and his mother, and everyone else who carried the last name of Malfoy other than Draco.

He felt the now-familiar, hollowed-out feeling. He scratched distractedly at his arm; it itched. A patch right below his Mark felt scaly to his touch, and he was avoiding mirrors, afraid he'd see a mote of red in his eye—silly of him, surely even those berks surrounding him would have noticed _that_.

He found it hard to wait for the sound of the key turning in the lock, and the sounds of her footsteps retreating down the hall. The compulsion to finish his report got stronger the longer he waited. And far better to do this quickly, so quickly he didn't have time to really register what he was doing.

He snatched the parchment from the drawer, hurriedly scribbling upon it all he'd been able to glean. Sometimes the kind of questions the Order asked could be more revealing than any answers. And that whiff of something he'd smelled on Granger… Yes, that could be used in several potions, especially those that unbound magic—fluxweed had such a strong smell she couldn't completely scrub it away or cover it with perfumed soaps and shampoos.

He rose and went to the window and cracked it open. After folding the parchment into an intricate shape, he blew into it. He felt the scrape of feathers across his palm as the folded figure transformed into a tiny Snowy Owl, which wended its way through the crack to fly to the monstrosity who was still Draco's master.

He didn't need a wand for that bit of magic, either. The diary acted as both a battery and lens, concentrating his power.

After all, it contained part of Draco's soul.

o0o

Draco hadn't been able to stave off his compulsion to bring out the diary any longer. So he finally laid out that horrible gift from his master. Every slash of the quill when he wrote in the diary had its counterpart drawn on Draco's body, depending upon what and whom he wrote about, in some strange sympathetic magic he didn't completely understand. Sometimes it would be across his heart or down to his gut. He licked his lips and began, writing about his taking of the Dark Mark. He flinched in anticipation even before he felt the sting and momentary wetness, up his arm this time.

The words he wrote were a bright red that took a thudding heartbeat to fade to brown then a quickly indrawn breath to vanish completely into the page, leaving it seemingly blank. He never lost his place after putting the diary aside though, every letter was etched upon his soul… both pieces of it.

Snape had told him about Riddle's diary, and it occurred to him this one had to be similar. Together with rumours around the school and hints dropped by his father, Draco had his own guesses about what the diary might be doing to him. Or undoing. How many killings had it taken for Tom Riddle to become Lord Voldemort? How much longer would it be before his own reflection in the mirror wasn't very human anymore?

Draco leafed through what was left of the book. Only a few pages remained to be written in.

"Worried about what happens when you get to the last page?"

He spun around to see Granger behind him. He'd been so absorbed, so entranced when writing, he'd been completely oblivious to what was around him. For all he knew, she'd Apparated beside him. She Accio'd the book to her without speaking a word. She didn't even move her lips—nothing in her face showed that it took any effort.

Of course. She'd been Snape's pupil, too. And, Mudblood or not, the acknowledged star of their year. He'd hated her for that whenever his father had brought it up to lash him to work harder. Hated her when, no matter how well he'd done, whether in Potions or Quidditch, he could never measure up to her or Potter.

"Give it back." His voice cracked and he swallowed, trying and failing to say more.

"Do you truly want it back, Draco?"

He slowly shook his head. What he wanted was to go back and fix things in a way no Time-Turner would allow: to say no to the Dark Lord's demands to make up for his father's disgrace. No Dark Mark. No diary. No duty more important than playing Quidditch for Slytherin and England. But even if he told the Order everything… Nothing he could say or do now would change his fate.

He moved to sit on the bed. After a moment, he could feel the bed sink slightly and felt a hand sliding up his arm and then across his back, in slow, soothing circles. He slumped lower, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He started shaking when he heard her make a soft, crooning noise which made him think of his mother. He opened and closed his mouth, tried to move, to shove her away, but his body wouldn't obey. He shouldn't let a Mudblood touch him, but instead of withdrawing, he found himself pulling her into his arms. He felt her wand hard against his back. Even through all of this, she must have had it in her hand, and he'd never noticed. He stiffened and pushed her away.

"I'm touched, Granger, really." He saw the diary on the desk where she must have left it, and stuttering laughter erupted out of him. "Do you know what that is?"

"A Horcrux. We've known ever since you brought it in. The question was whose, and who was killed to make it."

"And the others just let you come in here? Alone?"

"Ah, but we truly do trust each other, Draco. Not just our loyalties, but our judgement. That's what separates us from the Death Eaters."

He glanced down at tip of the wand poking out from behind her and gestured toward it. "Guess trust doesn't go too far."

"I said we trusted each other. Not that I was stupid." She smiled rather sadly. "I thought I was getting through to you, back when you visited me during my captivity. I thought I could see it in your posture, hear it in your voice. Did you even realise towards the end of my incarceration you called me Hermione?"

She rose from the bed and started to pace. "Then that night I heard the screams. They were like an animal's, barely recognisable as human. I was afraid it was you. That I had convinced you, and you'd tried something foolish, and—"

"I had done something foolish. I tried to get your wand back before going to get you, and I got caught. Snape had followed me and snatched your wand from me before anyone else could see it in my hand. But I didn't trust him and started yelling at him, I thought he was going to expose me as a traitor…. He took the blame for me, made it sound as if it were he who…"

"And?" She moved back to his side. She squeezed his forearm tightly, anchoring him. "Draco."

"The Dark Lo…" He straightened and turned to her, forcing himself to look in her eyes as he said it. "Voldemort said he was giving me another chance. To prove my manhood and my loyalty."

"You killed Snape."

He squeezed his eyes shut, nodding, grateful she hadn't made him say it. "They say you have to mean it, that you have to hate. I didn't hate Severus; I didn't. Not at the time. I think for a while… afterwards. It was so much easier when I thought him just a coward. On my own level. Nothing to measure up to then. Just someone else willing to do whatever it took to survive no matter what. You know, on the Astronomy Tower, I thought Dumbledore was begging for his life. I had such contempt for the old man then. 'Severus… please'—those were his last words."

"Harry told us. That's when I started to doubt. Or maybe when I began to lose my doubts. Albus Dumbledore would never plead for his life. He didn't when you had him at wandpoint, did he?"

"He… Dumbledore told me it wasn't my mercy, but his that mattered. Merlin… Severus. He said it too—not my name, just 'please,' asking for release. And by then it was a mercy, my mercy."

"Goyle told me, taunted me really. He said they'd 'killed the traitor,' but didn't tell me who or how. I thought… the implication was… 'you're next.'"

"You were. I'd heard Pettigrew and Lestrange talking. It's why I couldn't wait."

"By then, I'd spent so long down in that cell…. Just imagining it was you screaming, and then the screaming stopped. You were the only human contact that… Even through your jibes and insults, I felt you saw _me_. I didn't want to be left there alone." She sniffed, shaking her head violently.

In all the time she'd been incarcerated, Draco had never seen her other than dry-eyed and controlled. "I'm sorry," he whispered, taking her hand. He'd never thought he'd say such words to her—to a Mud—a Muggle-born.

"I swear I can still smell the place on me, you know, no matter how hard I scrub my skin."

He wrinkled his nose. "That's just the fluxweed."

She laughed. A rather shaky laugh, but one good to hear. "Why the Horcrux?"

"I think to tie me to him, to bind me. Make me over in his image, body and soul. He joked about making me his heir, but I'm not sure anymore it's a joke. Using the Killing Curse is supposed to split the soul, and a Horcrux binds the soul. Voldemort's wrapped up in this, too, since he ordered me to kill Severus. I think somehow, it's binding a piece of my soul to him. Sometimes, I feel as if he's seeing through my eyes, and I his. And I think…. I can't stop myself from writing in the diary. There's no coming back from this."

"There is."

His head whipped up at that.

She smiled at him shakily. "For a long time, a lot of us resisted believing that Dumbledore could have asked what he did of Snape. Even the portrait… Well, portraits can be Imperio'd, Confounded, Cursed, just like people can. McGonagall, especially, wouldn't believe Dumbledore could ask Snape to use an Unforgivable. But as long as the spell is not cast out of hate, or a lust for power, or anger, you can heal from this. The soul is torn, but it's not rent completely away. Not unless you complete _that_." She pointed to the book.

"Hermione… afterwards… They know. We didn't escape; I was sent here with you. I've been sending messages—"

"To Voldemort. We know."

"How could you…?"

"We've been intercepting them from the first. Some we've let through, others we altered, and others we've substituted our own messages. No damage done."

"Except to the one person who ever—" He was going to say who had ever believed in him, but looking at Hermione he knew he no longer thought that was true. He realised then he didn't care if destroying the Horcrux meant his life. It was as if telling her untwisted a tourniquet, allowing the wound to bleed free and the pain to come in. Let him be the last Malfoy if it came to that. "What do I have to do? To stop whatever that diary is doing to me?"

She handed him a wand. His wand, he recognized it. That had been what she had carried all along. Her lips twisted. "It is exactly like an _Avada Kedavra_. Only the incantation is _Liberus Animus_."

He stood in front of the diary and felt her hands on his shoulders, steadying him. He imagined he could feel some of her own magic pouring down from her arms, merging with his.

He raised his wand and said the words.

An oily smoke rose from the book. Was that part of him? Was it his or Voldemort's soul that was so ugly? He hoped that ugliness didn't return to him. He felt a wind go past him, a sound like a rushing of wings, and then the world fell away.

He came to with his head pillowed against something soft. Her lap, he realised. She slid her hand up his cheek and pushed the hair off his face. "Welcome back, Draco."

o0o


End file.
